The wizards, who had been running in a panic, suddenly froze. They looked up, terrified, at the symbol glowing in the sky.
It floated high above, its green light piercing the darkness like a sinister neon sign.
The entire forest was bathed in an eerie pale glow, the tents and trees below tinged with a ghostly green hue.
The crowd descended into total chaos.
Some clutched their children and scrambled toward their tents. Others collapsed to the ground, too frightened to stand, their legs trembling.
One wizard pointed at the sky, his voice sharp with fear as he shouted, "It's him! He's back! The Death Eaters are back!"
An older wizard, his face as white as parchment and lips quivering, uttered the name that sent chills through everyone: "The Dark Mark! That's the Dark Mark!"
His words hit like a bomb, exploding through the crowd. Screams and sobs filled the air, and the already chaotic campsite plunged into unprecedented terror.
At the Quidditch World Cup stadium, amidst the riot.
Dylan, Dumbledore, and Moody sat at a round table in a quiet corner, each with a steaming cup of tea in front of them.
The pub was hushed, the only sound the crackling of logs in the fireplace.
Aberforth stood behind the bar, wiping glasses, occasionally glancing at them from the corner of his eye.
"I should go," Moody said, breaking the silence first. His cup of tea sat untouched, steam still rising faintly from it.
Clearly, he hadn't been in the mood to drink since he sat down.
The old man stood, leaning on his cane, and absently tapped his stiff leg, a faint creak coming from his knee.
"I'll head back to my place for the night. Tomorrow morning, I'm off to track down the Crouch family. They've been too quiet these past few years—unnaturally quiet. I've got a feeling they're all lurking in the shadows, waiting for Voldemort to make a move."
Dumbledore nodded slightly, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. "Be careful, Alastor. That family's always been good at staying hidden."
Moody grunted in response, said nothing more, and limped to the pub's door. With a faint ripple of magic, he Disapparated.
After Moody left, Dylan stood, nodding to Dumbledore. "Professor, I'm heading out too. I've got to meet Sirius tomorrow to dig into the Black family."
With a small nod to Aberforth behind the bar, he pushed open the door and left the Hog's Head.
Only the Dumbledore brothers remained in the pub.
Aberforth set down the glass he was wiping and snorted. "You've dragged another kid into this mess."
Dumbledore just smiled, offering no reply.
Back home, Dylan found his parents still out.
He pushed open the door, shaking his head with a wry grin.
Oh well, parents will be parents. Let them spread their wings and fly.
He headed to his bedroom.
Summoning his pet, Cinders, the little creature immediately claimed his bed.
Dylan chuckled. He'd been so busy lately, juggling a million things.
Now, all he wanted was a good nap.
He glanced at the two pillows on his bed, tossing one to Cinders to snuggle with.
Fluffing his own pillow, he flopped onto the bed, the day's exhaustion washing over him.
At some point, Dylan drifted into a haze, the world around him turning pitch black.
The darkness was thick, like solidified ink, creeping in from all sides, clinging to his skin.
It seeped into his nose, making it harder to breathe, his chest tightening.
Just as he felt he might suffocate, a faint figure appeared in the dark.
A golden snake, its scales glinting coldly in the dim light.
Its slitted eyes, an eerie blood-red, locked onto him.
The snake slithered closer, its body coiling around Dylan's. At first, it was just a light touch against his skin, but then the coils tightened, the icy scales pressing against his arms, chest, and neck.
He could feel the sharp edges of the scales, each constriction making it harder to breathe, his chest heavy as if crushed by a boulder. His scalp prickled, and his fingers wouldn't move.
"Ugh—" Dylan bolted upright in bed, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead.
The suffocating sensation lingered in his throat, and he coughed a few times.
"Scourgify!" he said, waving his wand at his pajamas and sheets.
A flash of magic later, the damp fabric was dry, and the wrinkles in the sheets smoothed out.
He glanced out the window. Dawn had broken, the sun rising slowly over the horizon, golden light filtering through the curtains and casting long streaks across the floor.
Rubbing his tired eyes, Dylan reached for the clothes on his nightstand.
A deep blue wizard's robe, its cuffs embroidered with simple patterns.
"A nightmare? That's new," he muttered.
He rarely dreamed, especially since starting school.
He dressed quickly and walked to the dresser.
The enchanted mirror lit up instantly.
"Well, look at this guy! Absolutely dashing, perfect in every way!" it declared.
Dylan smirked. He'd created this mirror himself and was considering selling it to Borgin and Burkes.
With a flick of his wand, he tapped the mirror. "Quiet."
The mirror fell silent.
It was always like this, spouting nothing but the truth—flattering, but a bit loud in the morning.
On the dresser sat today's Daily Prophet.
Dylan picked it up and scanned the front page. The headline screamed:
Chaos Erupts at Quidditch World Cup: Dark Mark Lights Up the Sky
The article briefly mentioned Ireland's victory, noting they "secured the championship with steady performance."
The rest detailed the previous night's chaos—the floating Muggle corpses, the wizards' panic—while remaining vague about the Dark Mark's significance.
Flipping to the second page, another article caught his eye.
Hogwarts to Welcome New Professor? Dumbledore Eyes Former Auror Moody
According to a source, Dumbledore had recently met with retired Auror Alastor Moody, possibly to recruit him as Hogwarts' new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor to bolster students' skills against dark magic.
Dylan set the paper down, tilting his head thoughtfully.
He walked to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder from a nearby box. The fine, silvery powder felt cool in his palm.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the fireplace, the warm ashes soft under his feet. Raising the Floo powder, he called out clearly, "Diagon Alley!"
Last night's dream nagged at him.
He didn't believe it was meaningless.
Given Voldemort's track record, after being thwarted so many times, he wouldn't give up easily.
His return was likely close.
But that was exactly what Dylan was counting on.
As for the remaining Horcruxes, he wasn't in a rush. He'd deal with them one by one.
First, though, he needed to see Sirius.
But before that, Dylan made a point to find Borgin and instruct him to move the XY potion production equipment and inventory overseas.
He wasn't afraid of Voldemort's return—in fact, he looked forward to it.
But once Voldemort was back, he'd likely try to control the wizarding world's industries. Having his people lie low for a bit would minimize losses.
After all, he couldn't babysit the factory every day.
With the potion transfer sorted, Dylan arrived at Grimmauld Place.
"Huh? Dylan, what brings you here?" Sirius's voice was rough with sleep.
He stood in a rumpled gray pajama set, his hair a messy tangle, eyes half-open, clearly not fully awake.
Just a minute ago, he'd been fast asleep, only roused when Kreacher, the house-elf, heard the fireplace and woke him.
Even now, standing in the living room, Sirius's mind was still half in a dream, his gaze unfocused.
"I've got something serious to discuss, Sirius. It's about defeating Voldemort," Dylan said gravely.
The words "defeating Voldemort" were like a bucket of cold water. Sirius snapped awake, his eyes widening, his hazy expression sharpening.
"Defeat Voldemort?"
Images from the Quidditch World Cup riot flooded his mind—the Muggle corpses suspended in the air, the Death Eaters' mocking laughter, the Dark Mark glowing ominously in the sky…
And the memory of his best friends, James and Lily Potter, murdered by Voldemort.
The hatred surged in his chest.
"Absolutely," Dylan confirmed with a nod. "Yesterday, I went with Professor Dumbledore and Alastor Moody to a hidden location and found a clue about Voldemort."
"But I need to see the Black family tree to confirm something critical."
Sirius started toward the stairs, still puzzled. "Really? Where are Dumbledore and Moody? Why didn't they come?"
"We uncovered several leads, so we're splitting up to investigate. The Black family is one of them, and it's relatively safe, so I'm handling it."
Dylan followed, smiling faintly. "Plus, this lead might be tied to Voldemort's Horcruxes."
"Horcruxes? What are those?" Sirius stopped mid-step, turning to Dylan with a confused look, clearly unfamiliar with the term.
Dylan was a bit surprised.
He'd assumed the Black family, as an ancient pure-blood line, would know about such dark magic.
Apparently, Sirius hadn't inherited any of his family's darker knowledge.
He paused, explaining patiently, "It's a deeply evil form of dark magic."
"Every time the user kills someone, they can use the act's dark power to split their soul, then anchor that fragment to an object."
"That object, infused with the soul fragment, becomes a Horcrux, imbued with unique magical properties."
"As long as the Horcrux exists, its creator can't truly die. Even if their body is destroyed, their soul persists through the Horcrux."
"And Horcruxes are incredibly hard to destroy. The only known methods are the Killing Curse, Fiendfyre, or basilisk venom."
Sirius stood frozen, his face stiffening.
His brows furrowed, fists clenching until his knuckles turned white.
After a few seconds of silence, he growled through gritted teeth, "I knew it! That monster wouldn't just disappear!"
Taking a moment to calm his emotions, he looked at Dylan, confusion in his eyes. "But what do Horcruxes have to do with the Black family?"
They reached the family tree wall at the end of the living room.
The wall, made of dark, polished stone, was carved with dozens of lifelike relief portraits. Each had a name and birth-death dates etched in silver below, spanning over a century.
The figures bore the haughty expressions typical of pure-blood families.
Near the bottom corner, a blackened hole stood out, the surrounding stone scorched and cracked.
Sirius pointed at it, shrugging casually. "That used to be me."
"Probably blasted off by my mother when I broke with the family. They disowned me—but I never cared much about that anyway."
His tone was light, but a flicker of something complex passed through his eyes.
Dylan's gaze didn't linger on the hole. Instead, it settled on a portrait next to it—a young man, about seventeen or eighteen, with neat black hair and a formal black wizard's robe, his expression serious.
The silver text below read: Regulus Arcturus Black.
"That's him. No mistake," Dylan said suddenly, pointing at the portrait.
Sirius looked at him, bewildered. "Why?"
Dylan didn't beat around the bush. He quickly recounted yesterday's events.
He, Dumbledore, and Moody had gone to the island in the lake, found the basin of emerald potion, and used Inferi to drain it. Inside was an empty locket with a note signed "R.A.B."
"You mean… my brother Regulus?" Sirius's eyes widened, and he staggered back half a step, disbelief written across his face. "He destroyed Voldemort's Horcrux?"